


Shorts and Drabbles: Stories in Thedas

by Lauded_Liar



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: After Adamant, Ancient Elves (Dragon Age), Angst and Feels, Bets & Wagers, Card Games, Character Death In Dream, Demon Deals, Drabbles, F/M, Friendship/Love, Ice Skating, Laughter, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Mage-Templar Dynamics (Dragon Age), Memory Loss, Shorts, Silly, Temporary Character Death, The Fade, Touching, Touchy-Feely
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:35:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26036497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauded_Liar/pseuds/Lauded_Liar
Summary: Fenris knows how he feels about Hawke.  Knows it with every touch, every word.But acting upon that feeling?  Not as simple as acknowledging it.
Relationships: Anders/Female Hawke, Dorian Pavus/Cullen Rutherford, Elgar'nan/Mythal, Fen'Harel | Solas/Original Character(s), Hawke/Fenris, Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 10
Kudos: 19





	1. Touch

**Author's Note:**

> So I posted my little Grey story and then was like "I should have a place where I can just put my random little stories that I write in." And since I'm not the best at computers and such I ended up making a whole new story thread. *facepalm*
> 
> Also, if you have any prompts for short ideas: Random words, feelings, etc. I'd love to have a whack at it. Trying to work out that brain a little more lately.This was based on the word "Touch" - I figured a sarcastic, silly Hawke probably is pretty touchy-feely. I dunno why I get that feeling I just kind of do.
> 
> And Fenris... Sweet Fenris. How I adore thee.

He was always touching him. A brush of a hand. A friendly bump of a shoulder. The gentle nudge of a thigh under the table. A lingering palm on his back. Fenris tried to ignore it. To not seem interested when Hawke would stare into his very being with those feral amber eyes.

But it got more difficult every time.

Even when they shared angry words about the man’s proclivity to indulge the Abomination Anders. Or when the other warrior was insistent on safe guarding the dangerous apostates they inevitably ran across. When they argued about the veracity of Merrill’s claims that she ‘knew what she was doing’.

And after their heated words were finished, panting and cheeks flushed from passionate debate, Hawke would touch him.

And Fenris’ world would shrink to that single spot where the man’s caress lingered. Breath hitching, heart faltering, skin _burning_.

He wanted more. Especially since Hawke’s fascination with equality and fairness extended beyond just mages. He embraced the idea that all people’s deserved better. Elves. Men. Dwarves. Even Qunari. Fenris had never met anyone like Hawke in his entire life. Even the Fog Warriors fairness and care were a dim candlelight compared to Hawke’s sun-like brilliance.

His eyes were lingering on long, pale fingers that brushed against Hawke’s forearm. Slender fingertips stained from working with alchemical herbs tickling through the fine dark hairs. Jaw flexed, teeth grinding together, Fenris tore his gaze away from where Ander’s caressed their enigmatic leader and back to his hand of cards.

“And then she asked if there was a potion to cure it!” The mage was clearly intoxicated. A blush flushed high on his sunken cheeks.

Hawke laughed loudly, pulling his arm away from the other human’s stroking fingers to lift his tankard of ale to his lips.

“Look, mage. I only asked if there was a preventative measure so I wouldn’t have to bother you again.” Isabela replied, her shoulder’s shrugging. She didn’t seem the least bit ashamed that Ander’s had ousted her for having STDs.

“Rivani, if I ever write a story with you in it, I’m going to have to put a warning on the front page. In big bold lettering: For Mature Audiences Only.” Varric was shaking his head as he stared down at his own hand of cards.

“You’d sell a lot of copies in Orlais.” Hawke quipped.

“Ha!” Varric set his hand down on the table. “Full House. Read ‘em and weep!”

“You cheated!” Anders whined as he set his own dismal hand of cards down onto the table.

“You’ll be disappointed to note Varric but I have a Straight Flush, Angels high.” Isabela smirked at the gathered companions around the table to a round of loud groaning protests.

“Well, I’m tapped.” Hawke grumbled as he tossed his cards down onto the table. The warrior pushed away from the table and stood up. “I’ll see you all tomorrow?” He asked as he down the last sip of his ale tankard.

“More adventures?” Varric asked as he collected the cards off the table top and began to shuffle with practiced flair.

“Always.” Hawke promised.

“I’ll walk home with you.” Anders said as he pushed away from the table as well and fell into step with the other man.

Fenris’ eyes lingered on the pair of humans. His nostrils flared with irritation at the way Anders once more _caressed_ Hawke’s elbow.

“You in, Elf?” Varric asked as he began to deal the cards.

“Sure.” Fenris gruffed and turned away from the doorway as the two men walked out.

It was a subdued hand of cards with only the three of them left. Isabela and Varric kept glancing over at him.

“What?” He finally asked when looked up from his cards into Isabela’s staring brown eyes once again.

“So... I don’t mean to be a busybody but...” She started. Her eyes looked away back to her own hand of cards, fingers deftly moving them around.

“Then don’t.” Fenris growled and shook his head. He knew exactly where she was going with this. And he didn’t want to hear it. Not from her.

“I’m about to say something myself, Broody.” Varric muttered as he eyed his cards carefully.

“It’s just that, well, maybe you would feel a little better if you just... I don’t know... Approached Hawke?” Isabela suggested. It was a gentle nudge. A friendly push.

“He wouldn’t turn you away.” Varric agreed. The dwarf laid out the next card in the deck. A Knight of Roses.

“I knew a woman once that read cards. She would say that’s a good omen!” Isabela said happily as she laid another handful of copper down into the pot.

“Now you read cards?” Fenris asked flatly. He added his own copper pieces, shifting his own cards around.

“I’m just saying if you don’t board that ship there are plenty of others waiting on the docks.” Isabela said.

“Anders.” Varric coughed the name out. His fist hit his chest a couple times. “Sorry about that, had a little tickle.”

Isabela and the dwarf laughed lightly between each other. Another card placed on the table and Fenris scowled at the Serpent face. He just needed a Song and would have a flush hand.

“I’ll make you a bet. If you win... We won’t bother you about this again. But if Isabela or I win...” The two glanced at each other and then turned their wicked gazes back on him.

He looked back at his hand again, mulling over probabilities. “You’ll never speak of it again?” He asked. “Ever?”

“Well, I might use it in a story, but to you? Never. Lips will be sealed.” Varric ran his fingers over his mouth in a zippering motion.

Fenris’ eyes flicked to Isabela. The pirate lifted her right hand into the air. “I swear on my honor as a captain.”

“And if I lose?” He asked, eyes lingering on the traitorous Serpent card.

“You have to go to Hawke. Tonight. No excuses and I want all the glorious, gooey details tomorrow.” Isabela crooned.

“Anders might be there.” Fenris dead panned as he watched Varric flip another card. Another Knight. _Shit_.

“Blondie? Nah. He was swimming. Hawke probably tucked him into bed already.” Varric was smiling at his cards as he placed a shining silver to the pot. He was bluffing. He had to be. “Well, do we have a bet?”

Fenris stared at his cards some more. His teeth bit down on the inside of his cheek. Only a Song. And they would never bother him about it again. “Bet.” He ground between his teeth against his better judgement.

The night air was cool as he stood outside the door of Hawke’s estate. Lights were on inside so at least someone was still awake. He hoped it was merely Bodahn and could tell the two vagabonds he’d been turned away because ‘Messere Hawke is sleeping and doesn’t wish to be disturbed’. He took a deep breath and knocked.

The door swung open and Hawke stood there in his house robe. Amber eyes blinking widely at Fenris.

“Fenris!” The man was clearly surprised at seeing the elf this late.

“I have been thinking of you. In fact I have been able to think of little else. Command me to go, and I shall.”

Hawke stared at him for the space of a heartbeat. "No need."


	2. Loss Is A Terrible Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life is so very fragile. And when it's lost, those left behind often suffer.
> 
> Dorian x M!Adaar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. So idk why, but this like was all "Hey, who wants a sad?"
> 
> Okay...

It happened so quickly Dorian barely had time to register exactly _how_ it happened. He only knew it had and he was rushing towards the backward falling Tal Vashoth archer as fast as he could. Cassandra and Solas hadn’t noticed or seen the incident and were finishing the fight with the last demons from the rift as Dorian fell to his knees, sliding across the icy, muddy ground to Adaar’s side.

Blood stained the snow around the Tal Vasoth in garish red blotches. The body of the lesser terror demon burning away from this plane and back to the hellish landscape of the Fade. Dorian clamped his hands around the gaping, ragged laceration on the qunari’s neck, trying his best to stem the steady pulsing stream of his lover’s life fluid.

“Please, amatus. Please, no no! Solas!” He cried. “Solas, quickly!”

It had happened so fast. The demon had slipped past Cassandra’s defenses and lunged for the archer, it’s great claw skimming over the hardened leather of the qunari’s shoulder pad before snagging his neck, tearing at the exposed flesh. The archer had barely been able to ram an arrow straight through the thing’s eye killing it instantly before he stumbled backward and fell to the cold hard ground.

Blood was seeping between his fingers, hot and slick. It made maintaining the hold on the other’s wound difficult at best. Hazel-green eyes were wide and terrified as they gazed back into Dorian’s own. Why hadn’t he focused more on healing magics? Why hadn’t he accepted those lessons Solas had offered?

“Solas!” He cried again, his voice strained with despair. He could hear Cassandra rushing over with the loud clatter of her armor. “Stay with me. Please stay.” He whispered down to the now pale face of Inquisitor Adaar. “We need you. _I_ need you.”

The Tal Vasoth’s eyes were becoming glassy and the heavy thrum of heart was weakening by the second. The other made a strange gurgling sound, as if he were trying to speak, and blood bubbled between his lips to drip down his jaw and cheeks.

Lips that had kissed him so warmly only just that morning. Lips that smiled openly and laughed freely. Lips that whispered such sweet things in the night. Lips that Dorian never, ever wanted silenced.

Solas was beside him, quickly pulling his fur lined gloves off. “When I tell you, Dorian, I need to remove your hands. But not before.” The elf was saying, even as he began to uncork a tiny vialed potion.

Dorian’s eyes never left Adaar’s. Time felt an eternity as he held fast on the great ragged gash across the qunari’s neck. Those glassy eyes became unfocused and the Inquisitor’s great face slowly tilted away as life slipped between Dorian’s fingers to stain the snow covered ground of Emprise du Lion.

“Quickly Solas, there is not time.” He heard Cassandra say beside him.

“Adaar? Amatus?” He hissed, his fingers clutching tighter about the other’s throat as if he could will the sticky red blood back. But the Tal Vashoth did not answer. Those once sparkling eyes did not look at him. The quickly fading pulse beneath his hands had stopped.

“Remove your hands now.” The elf finally said after he finished his incantation over the small vial.

Dorian’s hands were sticky as he pulled them away from Adaar’s neck. Tears welled painfully in his eyes as he stared at the now dead Inquisitor. Breath came in short sobbing gasps. The world around him turned into swirling whites and reds as his tears built upon themselves before falling hot down his sweaty, blood dappled cheeks.

He had never told the qunari how he felt. Had been too afraid to. To say it out loud. He’d planned to, of course. Some day. When the time was right and the world wasn’t coming to an end, perhaps.

But now _his_ world had come to an end.

“Come on.” He heard Solas hiss, the elf pressing his hand on the Tal Vashoth’s chest to feel for a pulse after dumping the thick reddish potion over the slowly seeping wound. The elf muttered something angrily in ancient elvish as he grabbed his discarded staff from beside him. “Step back. There isn’t a lot of time, I need to cast now or he will be lost forever.”

Dorian was unable to move, his legs paralyzed beneath him as he continued to stare at the lifeless archer. His throat was painfully constricting, cutting off his own breath as utter hopelessness crashed around him like a great tidal wave. It sucked away everything inside him, leaving nothing in it’s wake but despair.

Gone. Adaar was... Gone.

Strong hands slipped under his arms and Dorian was lifted from where he knelt. He was unceremoniously dragged away from the Tal Vashoth’s still body.

“No!” He cried, struggling against Cassandra’s hold on him. “No! No!” He screamed and was able to briefly pull away with his flailing. But before he could return to the body’s side the warrior grabbed him once more, quickly tugging him around and into a firm embrace.

Hurt and anger burned through him like wildfire and he screamed in rage against the woman’s armor plated shoulder. His blood covered fists beat against her unyielding steel chest plate. He cried for her to let him go. _Let me go, release me, please, I need to help him! ___

__Adaar had been the one _real_ thing in his life. The only one who never judged him for his proclivities. Who had accepted him for everything he was. Had been there for Dorian when the mage needed him. Even when he’d been unfairly angry towards the Tal Vashoth. Even when he’d unfairly judged the Inquisitor (then only the Herald of Andraste) merely for what he was._ _

__“Be still, Dorian.” Cassandra whispered, her voice warm against his ear. Even through her hold on him was firm, it was gentle. “Let Solas work.”_ _

__His fervent fury dissipated and he collapsed against the strong Seeker. His bloody covered hands gripped at her front, leaving sticky red trails along the gleaming steel. He tried to take a breath to calm himself, eyes squeezing shut to stop any further tears. But the woman’s hands gently rubbed along his shoulder blades and Dorian’s resolve broke. He sobbed raggedly against her shoulder once. Twice. He wept softly against the woman’s neck._ _

__It was quiet in the valley, except for the occasional raven’s caw._ _

__“Did I miss anything?” A familiar, if raspy, voice asked._ _


	3. Ar lath ma, vhenan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dread Wolf had a hard decision to make and one that pushed away so many.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #16 of the Extra-Dramatic OTP prompts.
> 
> I was trying to make it like... Mythal/Solas. But uh... I think it got lost in translation.
> 
> Oh well! :)

Darkness. All was darkness for so long. And yet he lived a thousand lives, a thousand times. Experienced multitudes of memories. Every color of emotion, every brush of tragedy, every tangle of love and loss. An unending, ceaseless rush. Like waves of an incoming tide they crashed against him as he slept and swept him away over and over.

But his own memories were sharpest of all. If the others were faded rainbows, his were the sharp sting of rain against his skin. His choices that shaped all the world. His choices that set so many free of their chains. His choices that slaughtered thousands of elven.

So he slept. To forget. And relive. To rejoice. And regret.

_”Do you know what they are calling you?” She asked even as her delicate fingers scanned the pages of a book. “They call you the Dread Wolf.” Amusement colored the memory._

_“Is that so, vhenan?” He asked, smiling at her. “And where did you hear this?”_

_Green eyes twinkled as the book was set aside. “A rather reputable source.”_

_“Oh? It wouldn’t happen to be Keran?” Jealousy flared green around the edges._

_“Does it matter?” A hint of irritation in her voice. “What matters is you’re making them nervous.” She turned away from him and back to the stacks of books._

_“Not nervous enough.”_

Ages passed. In the blink of an eye he slogged through time. Forever in an instant. A moment that lasted an eternity. Empires were born and died. Cities built and razed. Evils crawled from the depths, tainted and foul, to be beaten back again and again by forgotten heroes. Songs of epic deeds written, sung, and lost.

Still he remembered. Still he slept. Still he walked the unending Dream.

_”There are rumors you want to... create a barrier?” She asked, her body warm against his side as they lay tangled within sheets._

_“I have been mulling over the idea, yes.” He admitted. Her head lay against his shoulder, black hair unbound and pooling across the bed behind her like silk._

_Silence. The coppery tang of betrayal tainted the air._

_“You are the greatest of us, beloved. But must you risk us all for this?”_

_“You don’t need to worry. I would never hurt you.”_

She slept beside him. Even in his slumber he could feel her there. Silent and waiting. How he wished he could touch her again. Hold her hand, pull her close, kiss her hair. Love of a thousand lives, the calm within his heart, the raging fire of his desires. His catalyst. His restraint.

Yet even so he was unable to pull himself from the drowning song of the Dream.

_”What have you done?” She cried, dark terror surrounded her like an aura. “What have you **done**!”_

_The sky rippled glowing black and green, red and purple, blue and yellow. Like an oil slick the Veil spread across the sky. Thundering screams echoed as great Cities fell from the sky. As the Elvhenan empire crumbled to dust in the blink of an eye._

_Bodies tumbled to the ground as buildings, without the supporting magic of the Face, toppled from their heights. Ever downward._

_Never again would such splendor grace the world._

_Forever would the Dread Wolf grieve._

Something pulled him from his deep sleep. Some niggling, scratching _thing_. It rasped along the inside of his skull. Like a dull blade scraping. Scraping. Scraping. Eyes blinked open, eyes that had not been awake in millennia. The dark, damp of the cavern he’d slept chill against his skin.

Where was he?

Who was he?

He was kings and paupers. He was a lonely maiden. He was a burly Grey Warden. He was a lost child and his worried parents.

He was all. And he was none.

Sitting up, he glanced to his side where she still slept. Alabaster skin glowing pale in the dark.

Who was she?

Looking upon her still face a sharp pain of regret. Of loss. He reached out a hand (that was his own and yet he did not recognize it) to touch skin as cold as the stone surrounding them.

_”What have you done!”_

He would wait.

But she did not waken. The body was an empty shell.

Hunger pulled him from their shared tomb. He stepped into a world unknown to him. Plants he’d never seen grew tall and green. The sky was a vivid blue. So fragile in it’s existence. Hiding a dark secret.

His secret.

He needed to find her. She could help him remember.


	4. Deal with the Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love makes us do foolish things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is #1 of the OTP Extra-Dramatic post:  
> 1\. Who would sell their soul to the devil to save the other.
> 
> Dorian x Cullen

Dorian had been told Cullen was seen in the city of Val Chevin. That Scout Harding had almost taken the man’s life out of pity.

_”Please, no. Let me speak with him.” Dorian had begged over the sending crystal with the Inquisitor. “I’m in Orlais, I can be to him within the week. Please, I don’t ask you for anything. Please give me a chance. Let me try to save him.”_

The Inquisitor, as hard of a man as he was, thankfully took Dorian’s pleas for mercy to heart.

_”I won’t have him sullying the Inquisition’s reputation. You have a week to get him off the street.” Inquisitor Cadash said. The line was drawn._

And now Dorian found himself scouring the streets and back alleys, looking for the blonde Templar. Heart pounding, he knew that Harding was following behind him wraithlike, watching, ready to report back to Cadash if he were to fail in finding Cullen.

“You can help me you know.” Dorian called out after yet another alleyway proved unsuccessful.

There was a soft rustling sound and Harding stepped out from behind a stack of crates. She watched him carefully, blue-green eyes hard as they gazed upon him. “I’m not supposed to assist. Inquisitor’s orders.”

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” Dorian shrugged his shoulders. He hadn’t assumed Cadash was the jealous type. But a spurned lover, it appeared, was not an easily won ally.

“He knows a lot more than you think.” Harding warned, but she stepped towards Dorian all the same.

“He’s still sore about my leaving, then?” The Tevinter asked, even as he followed in the scout’s footsteps to the end of the alleyway and back onto the street. She didn’t answer, only glanced over her shoulder at Dorian.

“And other... things.” The dwarven woman was as astute in her observations as ever.

“Ah. Yes, well. He was the one who only wanted a part time... Thing.” Dorian’s hand waved about as if he could fish the word he was looking for from the air.

They walked down another dirty, stinking alleyway, Harding easily jumping over a puddle of what was most likely piss. Possibly vomit. A dirty, haggard man reached out his hand towards Dorian, begging for coins as they passed. He did his best not to let his disgust show on his face.

Harding paused just before another slumped figure. Dorian paused as well, head tilted to the side as he watched the dwarf carefully. She stared right back at him. An uncomfortable moment passed between the two.

“You wanted help? Here. He’s right here.” Harding waved her hand towards the reeking person beside them.

Dorian’s throat constricted as he glanced over at the emaciated corpse-like being. Once sun-blonde hair now matted and filthy. Golden-brown eyes that had been so bright were now dull and empty. Ragged clothing hung to the man’s thin body. No longer the strong Lion of Fereldan. Dorian now looked upon the diseased, withered shell of Cullen’s darkest fears. He knelt down beside him, one hand lifting a silk handkerchief to his nose to block the rancid smell that surrounded the man.

“Cullen?” He asked, voice hushed.

Those dull brown eyes slowly slid to look in the general direction of Dorian’s face.

“Do you have any spare coin?” A raspy voice asked. Nothing like the calming tenor Dorian remembered.

“I’m here to help you. Do you remember who I am?” Dorian shifted slightly where he knelt, glancing around the filthy alley. Some other beggars were watching with a slight interest and suddenly the mage felt acutely aware of his fine clothing and jewelry.

“We shouldn’t linger.” Harding announced unexpectedly. Grey eyes blinked at the dwarf, surprised to still see her there. “I suggest we pick him up and leave. If that’s what you were thinking? Unless you just wanted to see him like this....” There was a hint of scorn in the woman’s tone.

“Of course. You’re right. You don’t mind helping me?” Dorian asked, even as he stood from where he kneeled.

“Just don’t tell Cadash.” She warned, stepping towards Cullen.

The man blinked at them as they closed in on him. “I don’t have anything right now. I told you last time, I’ll pay you when I get the money.”

“We’re here to help you.” Dorian soothed, even as he tried to grab the man’s arm to pull him from where he sat against the wall.

“No! I promise, I’ll pay! I know I’m behind, I’m just waiting on some money to be sent in the mail. He said he would send me more, it’ll be here soon-”

Dorian felt bile rise in his throat. If Cullen was talking about what he thought he was, it was in reference to a letter the man had sent to Dorian years prior. Asking him for a small loan. Dorian had promised to send him money. Had, in actuality, sent him money. But the courier had returned a few weeks later, coin pouch with him. He had been unable to locate the Templar, saying that there hadn’t been a man named Cullen Rutherford at the inn in Denerim.

“Cullen, please. It’s me, Dorian! I’m here, I’m here to help you!” A large, dirty hand slapped against his chest futilely. “Please.” He couldn’t help the whine in his tone.

“Just get him up, we’re drawing attention.” Harding hissed, already tucked under Cullen’s other arm.

Dorian glanced over his shoulder towards a few of the other haggard beggars in the street. Some were getting to their feet, the cold glint of steel in their hands as they watched the two attempt to get Cullen up.

“Would be nice if your magic was actually _useful_.” Harding grunted.

For someone as emaciated as the Templar was he was surprisingly still heavy. Dorian and Harding panted heavily as they dragged him through the streets and back to the mage’s hotel. The front clerk watched them, an undisguised look of disgust at the smell that followed.

“I need a bath prepared, lots of water and soap. Scissors as well. And food!” Dorian said as they began hauling the man up the stairs to his room. “Now!” He hollered when the clerk just stood staring at them.

The bath was brought up expediently, along with extra jugs of hot water and bars of good soap. Getting Cullen into the bath, however, was a completely different story. The man struggled against Dorian, pushing him away as he tried to get the ragged shirt off the other’s body. Harding had already left, muttering about Dorian ‘being on his own’.

“Let go of me! I will not be subjected to your blood rituals, mage!” Cullen shouted as a plume of white fire burst from him.

It felt like all the air in the room had been sucked away instantly. As if he had been slammed down face first into the ground from a two story fall, wind knocked from his lungs. The entire world coalesced into a pinpoint that centered around the dirty, ragged Templar and Dorian suddenly knew _fear_. Breathless, heart stopping fear that skittered over his skin and rippled under his scalp.

He had been subjected to the red Templar’s anti-magic spells but he had been ready for them, aware of what was about to happen. He would never have ever expected Cullen to Silence him. And not with such force.

It took a moment for his head to clear, his lungs achingly attempting to pull air in. Dorian stumbled back, hand grasping the edge of the bed as he tried to pull himself back from the abyss he’d been thrown into.

And as he did, grey eyes locked with honey-brown. Brown eyes that seemed, for that instant, clear and aware of what had just happened.

“Dorian?” Cullen asked, looking frail and frightened. His hands clutched at his dirty shirt and he was looking around the room in confusion. “Where am I? Why are you here?”

Dorian stumbled to stand up straight, still gasping for breath. “Cullen! Oh, Maker! You’re here with me, you’re okay now. I’m here.”

“Why?” The blonde was stepping back from him, shame and guilt pinching his face. “Why are you here?” There was the sound of a sob edging the other’s tone.

“Now, now. Don’t fret over it. You’re safe now. I’m going to help you.” He felt like he was trying to calm a spooked animal, soothing the larger man as he stepped forward step by tiny, sliding step.

“I-” Cullen paused as he took in the room around them. “I’m not quite sure I understand.” He looked down at his hands, the nails torn and crusted in filth, his fingers scarred and tattered. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten quite a lot.”

“Let’s get you a bath first, hm?” Dorian motioned for the bath tub. The water had cooled considerably.

Cullen was surprisingly easy to deal with in this state. Though he kept repeating himself, saying again and again he didn’t know where he was and he didn’t understand why Dorian was there. But whenever Dorian moved away to get more soap, or the scissors to trim the man’s now clean hair, Cullen was quick to reach for him and grab his hand. Like a child afraid to be without their parent nearby.

The bath water was so dark with filth by the time they finished Dorian couldn’t see the white porcelain bottom.

“I’m going to get some food, and have the servants come to take away the bath.” He said soothingly to Cullen, the man sitting on the edge of the bed wrapped in a bath robe. “It’ll be alright, I’ll be right back, I promise.”

Tears were gathering in the other’s eyes and he nodded slowly as Dorian opened the door and stepped into the hallway. The door was slowly shutting when a soft whimper came from the blonde.

“Please don’t leave me! It’s so dark all the time, I can’t remember wh-who I- why am I here?”

_”You’re rather foolish for a mage. Always following me around. Do you know what I’ve done to mages who bothered me in the past? What is it about me that excites you so much you feel the need to be a rock in my shoe?” Cullen asked, eyes lifting from the paperwork strewn across his desk as Dorian sauntered into his tower._

_“I came to see if you would care for a game of chess. There’s no one else here that can even come close to my prowess in battle.”_

_“Your prowess.” Cullen snorted and returned to his work. “I have utterly defeated you every game. I find it difficult to believe anyone else would be unable to also pummel your pride.”_

_Dorian clutched his chest above his heart. “You wound me sir! Such venomous words from so sweet a face! When all I ask for is but a moment of your time.” He dramatically slumped against the ladder and pouted at the ex-Templar._

_A small smile slowly stretched it’s way over Cullen’s lips and he looked up at Dorian through long lashes. “Alright, alright. Let me finish here and we can play a game or two.”_

“Please.” Cullen begged again and it brought Dorian pause, his head leaning against the wood of the doorway.

“I’ll be right back, Cullen. I promise. I promise.” He answered, tears of his own gathering along his lower lashes and spilling warm and salty down his cheeks. The door clicked close and soft wheezing sobs escaped the mage. After a moment he was able to gather himself together, hands roughly wiping at the tear tracks down his cheeks as he headed along the hallway to get the servants.

The next morning Dorian awoke, his arms wrapped around Cullen’s waist, the other’s back pressing warm against Dorian’s chest. He could smell the lyrium on the man. Like a sharp electric scent that tinged the air. It mixed with the smell of clean skin and the underlying scent that was Cullen.

_”You smell... different.” Dorian said as they sat at the long dining tables in SkyHold’s main hall eating dinner._

_“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Cullen said, his sharp tone telling everyone around he didn’t want to talk about the subject the mage was broaching. But Dorian was ever one to press an issue._

_“It smells familiar somehow. Like a lightning storm.” Dorian whiffed the air again, ignoring the warning glance that Cassandra shot his way._

_“Leave me be, mage.” Cullen snarled as he stabbed his fork forcefully into a piece of potato._

_“It reminds me of...” A mana potion. It reminded him of the smell of a freshly opened mana potion. “You’re taking lyrium again?” He asked, his voice lowering to a horrified hush._

_“I said leave me be.” Cullen growled as he pushed away from his barely touched meal and stormed out of the hall. The companions that had sat nearby watched him go in horrified silence._

Everything had gone downhill from then. Cullen had withdrawn from the others, pouring himself into his work instead. He’d ignored Dorian’s overtures for chess games. Had not even blinked when the mage had joined Sera in ‘pranking’ the Commander.

Dorian’s arms tightened around the sleeping man. He had spent so much time and money trying to locate the Templar. He had almost lost hope as the days had turned to months, which turned to years. But when Cadash had contacted him, telling him that the Commander had been found...

He pressed a soft kiss to the back of the man’s head, lacing his fingers between thick, calloused ones. The gentle steady rhythm of the other’s breathing filled the quiet room.

_”C’mon. You haven’t left this room in four days!” Dorian complained. “Are you really that upset about the Inquisitor disbanding the Inquisiton?”_

_“What am I going to do, Dorian?” The man asked, sitting hunched on the edge of his bed._

_“I don’t know. You could come with me? I can show you such wonderful things. Have you ever been to a concerto grosso?” Dorian asked, reaching a hand out to touch Cullen’s shoulder. He sat down beside the other, his hand sliding around the man’s back to pull him in for a sidelong hug. “Oh! Or the Gardens on the River in Verchiel?”_

_“I’ve been to the Gardens.” Cullen said despondently._

_“Think of this as... A vacation! Hm?” He gently shook the man’s shoulders trying to cheer him up._

_“I have nothing left, Dorian.” The utter hopelessness in the man’s voice crushed his heart._

_“No, no. Don’t say that. You have me. I will always, always be there for you. No matter what.” Dorian promised._

_“Why?” Cullen asked, eyes glassy._

_“Because I care about you.” A single shoulder shrug._

_“But why?”_

_He paused, mulling over the man’s question. “Because... You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. Because you care so deeply. Because you are so adamant about everything you stand for. You never waver in your convictions.”_

_“I wavered in one.” The other man said softly, staring down at his hands._

_Dorian could never forgive Cadash for forcing the blonde to take lyrium again. “You didn’t. It wasn’t you.”_

_“I can’t stop myself. It’s like I’m stuck in a whirlpool and I can’t swim out. It’s frightening. It wasn’t like this before, Dorian.”_

_“I’m here. I can help you. Just... reach for my hand, won’t you?” Dorian pleaded._

_Golden brown eyes looked up into his own, so much pain and fear held within it crushed him beneath it’s weight._

_He was unable to stop himself as he leaned forward and pressed his lips against the blonde’s thin, scarred ones. It surprised him when the man didn’t pull away but instead returned the kiss tentatively. The kiss grew in intensity rapidly. Like a stoked fire, hands began to rove over cloth and grasped at warm skin beneath. Kisses turned from soft tentative exploration to open mouthed, teeth clashing, and needy._

_Dorian was swept away by problematic emotions as they came together in a carnal rush. Like his own rising concerto, his body sung with his release as Cullen kissed him again and again. It last an eternity. And ended too soon. Bodies lay entangled in the sticky aftermath of their encounter. The Templar’s heavy, solid weight upon Dorian was welcome, and the mage wrapped his limbs around the other as they shared more soft kisses in their post coital glow._

_“You’ll come with me in the morning?” Dorian asked in a hushed whisper against tousled blonde locks._

_“I’ll think about it.” Cullen murmured sleepily. Together they slipped into sated sleep, arms encircling and holding close._

_The next morning Dorian awoke to a cold, empty bed. A letter of apology on the pillow next to him._

_I’m afraid I can’t go with you  
You are my only friend and I would not burden you unduly_

_Thank you for everything_

_Yours Always,  
C. Rutherford._

Dorian was caught off guard as an elbow slammed back against his ribs, knocking the wind from him. Cullen crawled from the bed, his hands clutching the robe wrapped around him.

“Who are you.” The man growled, eyes once more glossy and far away. “Why am I...” He paused, looking down at the thin robe that barely concealed anything at all. “I...” Dorian rubbed at his chest and groaned as he sat up slowly. “Was I... Was it enough?” The blonde asked, clearly concerned about whatever it was he thought the two had gotten up to the night before.

“It’s me, Cullen. Dorian. And was what enough?” The mage asked, still rubbing at his sore solar plexus as he slid to the edge of the bed, his silken pajamas rustling softly with each movement.

“Was it enough to cover my debt? And maybe... Maybe more?” There was a strange light that came to the man’s eyes and suddenly Dorian knew exactly what it was that Cullen was asking.

“No. No. This wasn’t anything like that. Cullen, surely you remember me. Dorian Pavus.” He swallowed down the sickness that was threatening to rise from his gut. “It’s me, amatus.” He whispered, slowly approaching the confused man.

Cullen was shaking his head as if he didn’t believe what he was hearing. “N-no. Look, I just need a little to last me the week. One vial, I’ll do whatever it is you want. Just one vial.”

A sick tightness gripped his throat and Dorian swallowed thickly once. Twice. “You don’t need any of that. You’ve quit it before. You can do it again. I’m here now, and I’ll help you. We can do this. Together.”

Anger flashed over the haggard man’s features. Brown eyes glanced around the room and the robe was dropped as he picked up his freshly cleaned, but still ragged, clothes from a nearby chair. Dorian watched as the man pulled them on and the blonde stumbled towards the door.

Quickly the mage stepped forward, grabbing Cullen’s forearm and pulling him away roughly from the door. “No. No, you’re staying here with me.” Fear flashed cold down his spine when those brown eyes focused on him, the threat of another burst of the Templar’s wrath imminent.

“I paid you what was owed! You have no right to keep me here!” The blonde cried, trying to wrench his arm from Dorian’s grip. But the mage was better fed, and thusly stronger than the once sturdy warrior.

“It’s for your own good!” Dorian cried. He may have been stronger but it was still a struggle to keep the writhing man from breaking free.

A fist lashed out, slamming against his jaw and lights flashed before Dorian’s eyes as his head jerked to the side with the blow. He grunted in pain, briefly releasing his hold on the other. Just long enough the man was able to escape out the door and rush down the hallway, bare feet pounding muffled against the lush carpeted floor of the inn.

“Forgive me.” Dorian hissed as he cast Terror upon the fleeing man.

Cullen’s body seized up and he froze in his step near the top of the stairs. The mage rushed forward and quickly grabbed the terror frozen man, dragging him back to the room. The deadbolt in the door was locked firmly and Dorian waited patiently while the effects of the spell wore off. He was ready for the rage surely about to be released upon him.

But it never came. Instead, when finally released from the horror of the spell, Cullen crawled to the corner of the room and huddle with his knees against his chest, arms wrapped around them as he rocked back and forth.

It was like that for days. Cullen would beg and plead Dorian for lyrium, promising him he’d pay him. Do whatever he wanted. One time, Cullen had even fallen to knees in front of Dorian, hands quickly trying to pry open the front of his pants. But the Tevinter had pushed him away, horrified at the implications the act made of the blonde’s recent past.

And when the mage refused to give him anything, the Templar would escape the room. Or attempt to.

That was only during the day. The nights quickly devolved into nightmare. When Cullen would actually sleep he would toss and turn, moaning in pain as he burned with fever and left the sheets soaked in sweat. And when he didn’t sleep, he would hunch in the corner of the room, muttering to himself and scratch at his skin as if insects crawled over him.

Dorian found himself crying more than not as the days passed and the symptoms of withdraw grew worse. He hadn’t planned on staying so long in Val Chevin. He had been expected back in Qarinus a day ago. During one of Cullen’s fretful episode’s of sleep he left the room and sent a letter back home to Maevaris, apologizing for his absence and promising a swift return. But he knew it was a lie. Return would be delayed. For an unforeseeable amount of time.

The days turned into weeks. Harding had stopped by once to check on him, letting him know that if he needed help (any kind of help) she was nearby. Dorian knew what the offer entailed.

“I’m not giving up on him.” Dorian had told her, arms over his chest.

“Would he have done the same for you?” She asked. “Lyrium withdraw can get pretty bad. Violent even. Just... don’t make Cadash regret giving you the chance, okay?”

The dwarven woman was loyal to a fault. Dorian appreciated her for it. Not many would have remained _just in case_.

As time rolled by Dorian felt his own sanity leaving him. He wasn’t sure just how long they’d been locked inside the room. Every day blurred into the next. If it wasn’t for the passing of the sun, Dorian wasn’t even sure he would know day from night.

He watched from his chair as Cullen sat staring at a wall, muttering unintelligibly as he scratched with ragged nails at the wood paneling of the room. Dorian’s own fingernails were chewed down to the quick as he watched the man hunched in the corner destroy the interior of the rented room.

He bit too far down, the coppery tang of blood on his tongue as he tore a chunk of nail off painfully. Grey eyes stared as a small bead of blood gathered on the end of his finger. Possibilities bloomed within the sanguine drop.

He could save Cullen. He just needed help.

The bleeding finger was shoved further into Dorian’s mouth and he bit down hard, teeth tearing at the nail bed, drawing forth more blood as he searched the ether for that desired help.

His call was answered faster than he imagined. His conscious mind pulled from his physical form to the Fade. He knew the Fade, knew the feel, the smell, the _taste_. He knew he needed to remain calm, even as he found himself walking the familiar, yet hazy, lower courtyard grounds of SkyHold. Most things were in their remembered place. But not all. A blink and he was walking along the battlements towards Cullen’s tower. His feet never faltered, knowing the Demon was toying with him. Trying to unsettle him, make him easier prey.

The heavy wooden door of the tower swung open and Dorian stepped into the familiar office. Mostly familiar. There was an extra bookcase on the far wall, filled with copies of ‘Hard in Hightown’. Some volumes yet to even be published. If ever they were.

She stood there, the Desire demon. Staring at the stacks of paper that littered the top of the desk.

“It’s been a long time, Dorian.” She crooned, low sultry voice echoing through the Fade.

“Not long enough, I’m afraid.” He answered, jaw set in determination.

“What is it you come to me for? You weren’t interested in what I had to offer last time. Or... Maybe I do know.” As she turned her true form shimmered and altered until before him stood a young Cullen Rutherford. Far younger than even Dorian knew him. Fresh faced, eyes bright with an eagerness the blonde man probably hadn’t shown since his early twenties. He wore the Templar armor, shined to perfection, red sash perfectly tied at his hip and holding his once ever-present sword at the ready. “Is this what you’re after?” The Demon asked, now in Cullen’s own familiar tenor.

“A little young for my taste.” Dorian quipped back.

“Hm. Then perhaps...” The youthful figure before him shimmered, the Templar breast plate turning a darker color, the great red plume of fur replacing the large ornate pauldrons, and a more aged face appearing. A wiser face. Familiar scars and creases lining the Demon-blonde’s visage.

“Better. But I didn’t come to play dress up. I came to ask a favor.” Dorian said, turning away from the figure before him to look at the bookcase against the wall.

 _The Seventh Blight, a History_ sat beside _Horrors of the Third Inqusition_. Dorian wondered at the truth of the titles. The Fade sat in between time, living all ages simultaneously. What was, is, and could possibly be.

“What you wish of me is not an easy task.” Demon-Cullen stated, drawing Dorian’s attention back to him. “Templars take lyrium to not only protect from magic, but also demons.”

“Your kind were able to infect the Seekers easily enough, and they had taken lyrium. I just want you to... Help him.”

“You want me to bring _this_ one back. Which is impossible. Why not just stay here and be with me? It’s much easier. And so much more pleasurable. For all involved.” The Demon-Cullen stepped close to Dorian, one of his hands reaching up to stroke along Dorian’s cheek in a loving manner. He moved closer, closing the distance between them and pressed a warm, stubble rough kiss to Dorian’s mouth.

“No. If you won’t do what I want, I’ll find another.” Dorian was quick to the door, his heart pounding in dread at what he was doing. The game he was playing. The way the Demon’s offer was so _tantilizing_.

Demon-Cullen sighed heavily. “Fine! What are your terms?” He asked.

Dorian paused at the door, hand on the handle ready to flee at any sign of trouble. “I want him cured of the lyrium madness. I want him sane. I want him healthy.”

“I assume he need to remember you?” The Demon asked, looking at his nails as if bored with the transaction already.

“Yes.”

“And love you?” Golden eyes glinted with malice as they looked at him.

“I want him as he was. As he is. Nothing more, nothing less.” Dorian slowly turned, arms crossing over his chest as he faced the Demon once more.

“It will be difficult. You’ll need to cast a ritual so I can enter his space... Even now, with you so close, I can smell the lyrium in him.” The Demon-Cullen glanced at the door of the tower as if he could see past it and into the room where Dorian’s body remained. Where Cullen remained huddled in the corner, lost in his insanity.

“And in return?” Dorian asked. His throat flexed rigid, breath catching as brown eyes met grey.

“I want you. Tit for tat. A life for a life.” The Demon said, Cullen’s lips stretching into a wide, feral grin.

Dorian’s jaw shuddered, teeth clattering behind his tightly sealed lips. “You ask too much.” His voice quavered just slightly.

The Demon paused, mulling over it’s options. It knew Dorian could find a better deal elsewhere. Could find a simpler demon to assist in what he asked, and the stupid demon would probably do it for a lollipop and a hand job.

“Five years hence, then.” The Demon-Cullen bartered, knowing such a deal would not present itself again with such a wonderfully exquisite specimen for a very long time indeed.

“And then what?”

“You become my vessel. Don’t worry, as long as it’s agreed upon you’ll retain your good looks. I never liked the monstrous form some take. And the fun one can get up to with such a fine exterior...” The Demon-Cullen ran his hand down the front of Dorian’s chest in an appreciative manner.

Dorian stepped back from the Demon and brushed at his shirt front as if to push away the lingering feel of the other’s fingers. “Ten years.” He countered.

“Six.”

“Eight.”

The Demon contemplated him carefully. “Ah. The things you humans do for love. Deal.”

The tower flashed bright and disappeared, Dorian gasped for breath as he awoke once more within the room of the inn. He knew the ritual that needed to be done. The knowledge was just there, inside him. Slowly standing from his chair, Dorian crossed the room towards the still muttering, mad Templar.

His hand found it’s way to soft wavy blonde locks and fingers threaded through the fine hairs. Heart thumped against his ribs and he leaned in to press a soft kiss to the man’s temple. As he pulled away, he recited the incantation, once more ripping at the still sore skin of his finger and drawing forth more of his blood. A hot, white light illuminated around the blonde and a rising sound like that of whistling wind over hot desert sand drowned out all else within the room.

He was thrown back into the chair he’d risen from, the wooden furniture smashing into pieces as his body slammed against it. The splintered wood pierced his skin and he cried out as whatever spell he’d cast drew from his life essence to fuel the Demon’s work. Blood swirled in ribbons around the now white hot glowing Templar. He could see Cullen writhing as if he were in pain, back arched, limbs flailing. But it was difficult to look directly at the other man like he were the midday sun and Dorian a cave dweller.

The whistling wind grew, tossing about other pieces of furniture. They slammed hard against the walls, barely missing Dorian where he lay curled up on the floor. The bed shook and rattled across the floor boards, sheets torn from it and whipping about the room as well.

It seemed to never end.

But end it did.

The furniture that had been zipping about fell to clatter on the floor. Sheets lazily drifted down to cover Dorian where he lay. The wind stopped and the only sound within the room was the rasping wheeze of his breath. Eventually he peeked out from under the silken sheets that covered him to glance at the corner where Cullen remained.

Honey-brown eyes, no longer glossy or lost, looked at him from across the room.

“Dorian?” Cullen called, his voice thready and weak.

“Cullen.” He sat up fully, rushing across the room to the other man still huddled where he’d been all day. “Cullen, Maker be praised!” He cried as his arms wrapped their way around the shivering man. Warm kisses fluttered over the blonde’s face.

“I thought... I thought you were in Tevinter. I tried to send you letters but...” Cullen said, his voice shaking. But the larger man didn’t push Dorian away even as the mage continued to press excited kisses to his sunken cheek.

“I’m here now, amatus. I will never leave you again. I promise.” Dorian whispered against stubble rough skin. And he meant it.

 _Tick Tock._ A sultry voice whispered.


	5. Magic is Meant to Serve Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen considers everything he knows and tries a different approach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Need... Fluff... 
> 
> World... Bad...
> 
> D:

_Templars are meant to protect mages from the world as much as they protect the world from magic._ This was part of the creed spoken to him he hadn’t taken as seriously after Kinloch. After he had been tortured and abused. Who would protect such creatures that would smile at you as they drew your very life essence away? Why would you want to?

But as he watched Dorian frowning at yet another letter from Tevinter, eyes scanning the words on the page, he understood those words with clarity. He watched from his hidden spot amongst the bookcases in the tower as the darker skinned man viciously rubbed tears from his eyes and a soft sniffle echoed through the quiet library.

Carefully, slowly, he stepped out from the shadow and approached the mage as the black haired man began to burn the piece of parchment over a nearby candle.

“Not a very good idea to start a fire up here. With how dry it is in this room, and all these books.” He mumbled. His voice rumbled low at an attempt to keep the other calm with his sudden appearance.

“Oh. Commander. I didn’t see you there.” The other said, eyes focused on the burning piece of paper. “No need to worry, I have a pitcher of wine nearby in case anything goes wrong.” A charming, lopsided smile as those silver eyes flicked to lock with his own.

“Wine for you? Or wine to smother any infernos?” Cullen asked, one eyebrow raising questioningly.

“Well, a glass for myself first, of course. I’m sure I’ll need it when for when Lady Nightingale decides to eviscerate me for burning down her tower.”

Cullen chuckled softly and he watched as the last of the letter burnt to ash in Dorian’s fingers and was scattered onto the floor. Before being stomped beneath the man’s shoe.

“Don’t tell the servants that was me.” The man whispered, a finger lifted to his lips as he winked.

“Are you... Alright?” Cullen asked after a moment of awkward silence.

“Nothing one of those said glasses of wine won’t fix.” Dorian said as he picked up a goblet and filled it with dark red wine. “Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of your exquisite company?”

“I was just speaking with Leliana...” He cleared his throat, glancing away from the other man’s intense gaze. “And she...” There was a slight stiffening in the mage’s poise, shoulders pulling back, spine straightening. “Ahem, would you care for a game of chess?”

A soft inhale of air drug honey-brown eyes back to Dorian’s face, even as the other glanced away in turn. There was a tremor, ever so slight, that shivered across the other’s lips as he looked down at the goblet of wine in his clutch. Head dipped ever so slightly, shoulders slumping.

“I’m afraid I’m not fit company just now, Commander. Perhaps another time, hm?” A backward roll of shoulders and Dorian’s eyes returned to Cullen’s own. But the smile belied the other’s emotional state, a faint shine lingering along those khol rimmed lashes.

“If you ever need to talk... I... Have been told I am a good listener.” Cullen swallowed and shifted on his heels. He felt very much out of place just then. “I know that... Iron Bull has been away... And I know I’m not as well equipped as Varric or the Inquisitor to give advice, but...” He paused as he rubbed at the back of his head, once more unable to meet those eyes. “Well, I have duties to attend to. If you need company or just an ear to bend, however, my door is always open.” He said, a blush furiously burning his cheeks. Cullen gave a short bow towards the other and turned crisply on his heel.

But as he hit the first stair down, a soft voice called out from behind him.

“Thank you, Cullen.”

And he knew that no matter what the future brought, he would work to ensure that his legacy was not one of anger and resentment towards mages. But one of friendship and care. And love.


	6. Dream of Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders knows not the fate of Hawke. Until she visits him in his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a prompt offered up for slaughter on Tumblr (after I awkwardly begged for it).
> 
> "Not much left to freak out over, you're already dead."
> 
> F!Hawke x Anders

Anders crawled into bed, exhausted from another day of assisting the helpless and less fortunate of whatever backwater town he’d found himself in. He wish he was able to send a letter to SkyHold, obviously in code that he hoped only Hawke and Varric would be able to decipher, but Varric had warned in his letter to Hawke that they had the best spy network employed with the Inquisition and any correspondence would be monitored. And since Anders was still Enemy Number One in the higher echelon of the Chantry it would be best to remain low to the ground. However the days and weeks without his companion, his confidant, his savior, and his lover became harder and harder to endure with each passing hour.

 _”You need not let her consume your every thought.”_ Vengence had warned. _”She is a helpful tool, but nothing more.”_

“She is my best friend. And I love her.” Anders had responded, ignoring the curious glance from a merchant as he picked through the pile of wilting cabbages and carrots in the market.

_”As you say.” _The spirit had snarked in return before falling silent once more.__

__The straw and mud ceiling above Anders was beginning to deteriorate. He was certain that it would collapse with the first snow of the season. And if it didn’t he would be the first to kneel at the statute of Andraste in the town square and kiss the cold stone toes in obeisance._ _

__Rolling to his side, he released a long, beleaguered sigh as his arms wrapped tight around a pillow. Hawke’s Mabari, King, lay with his toes twitching and nose snuffling as he dreamt. The glowing embers of his cooking fire flickered a warm red glow across the walls. He watched the dancing shadows, letting his thoughts flitter into obscurity as the fluttering light eased him into sleep._ _

__The streets of Kirkwall were just as dingy and cold as he remembered. Walking along the dusty tan stone of Low Town, he paused to pick up a book, flipping through pages. He could picture the story it told, but not understand the words written in faded ink upon the paper. Setting the book down, he offered a smile to the elderly Fereldan refugee that manned the shop. Undoubtedly the books were ill gotten goods from the harbor. But Anders was never able to fault those in need._ _

___”I’m quite late.”_ He announced, as if those in the Low Town market had any care that he was supposed to be any place at all. In fact, they seemed to be less than willing to even allow him to precede in the direction he needed to go. They jumbled around him, blocking his path towards the Hanged Man. _”Excuse me, pardon me, I’m just looking to get over that way-”_ He mumbled, pushing and shoving his way through the crowd of people._ _

___”Please, I can’t let Fenris win by default. You see I owe him nearly ten sovereigns, if I could just get through-”_ _ _

___”Anders?”_ A familiar, friendly voice called._ _

__He paused in his fruitless push forward and looked around the shifting marketplace, lifting himself up to the balls of his feet to peek over numerous heads of shoppers and loiterers. Cropped raven hair stood out starkly against the muted colors surrounding and Anders cried out, hand lifted in greeting._ _

__“Hawke!” He called excitedly. A shapeless body shoved past him forcefully, nearly knocking him from his feet in his eager greeting._ _

__There was a soft laugh and a warm hand wrapped it’s way around his arm to stabilize him as the crowd began to fade away into dusty shadows. “Careful there.” Marian crooned. Bright blue eyes smiled up into his own and Anders grinned in sudden ecstatic pleasure._ _

__“Oh, I’ve missed you!” He cried, arms wrapping warm around the woman before him. But why did he miss her? Hadn’t he just spoken to her in his clinic that morning? “Uh. I was going to play cards with Varric and the others. Are you coming tonight?” He asked, pulling back just slightly to look back into his lover’s eyes._ _

__“Not today, I don’t think.” She answered. There was a sadness about her, like a miasma that made her seem... Real. More _solid_ than the pushing crowd..._ _

__Anders looked around the marketplace. It was surprisingly barren of any other souls than their own._ _

___”We are in the Fade.”_ Vengence supplied. _”And yet we are in your dream.”__ _

__“Which is it? Are we in the Fade or are we in my dream?” Anders asked, looking around the dusty marketplace and then back at Marian._ _

__“Both?” She answered, shrugging slightly. “I honestly don’t have any idea.”_ _

__He could feel the fogginess of slumber lifting and panic began to set in. “Where are you at? I... You haven’t sent me any word, I went to the town we agreed upon.”_ _

__A pained smile fluttered across Hawke’s features. “It’s... complicated, love.” She muttered as one delicate hand lifted to brush across Anders’ cheek._ _

__“What’s complicated? Coming back to me shouldn’t be complicated!”_ _

__“Oh, Anders. Don’t panic.” Marian answered flippantly. “Honestly, there isn’t anything to freak out over, I’m pretty sure I’m already dead.”_ _

__Ice cold dread bloomed in his chest and he shook his head, stepping back away from the woman. “N-no. That’s not possible. You... This is just a nightmare. This is a bad dream. I need to wake up. Wake up, wake up, wake up!” He beat his fists against his temples._ _

___”She does not tell a lie. I sense no mistruth.”_ Vengence sneered. He could feel the spirit’s pleasure at the news. At least now Anders would be able to focus on their task._ _

__“How? How are you here?” Tears stung the corners of his eyes and he quickly blinked them away. If what she was true she shouldn’t seem so real. She shouldn’t be so physically present within his dream._ _

__Unless she was a demon._ _

__“Well... You see... You know Adamant?” Hawke started._ _

__“Of course. What does Adamant have to do with anything?”_ _

__“A lot. It’s...” There was a strange ripple through the dream, colors faded in and out, buildings briefly becoming transparent as _something_ tried to draw him from his dream._ _

__“Hawke. Please. Please tell me this isn’t true. Tell me you’re coming home.” Anders begged, stepping forward to grip the woman’s arms and pull her close. “I need you.”_ _

__She smiled cheerlessly and shrugged. “I’m not an expert when it comes to the Fade. All this magical shit is your arena.” The woman sighed._ _

__“What does that mean?” Anders asked, shaking her shoulders even as the world around them slipped further away._ _

__“Varric will fill you in. He knows how to reach you.” She was beginning to shimmer, a muted green that flickered around the edges. “I’ll be here when you fall asleep! I love you.”_ _

__“Please don’t leave me.” Echoed lonesomely as he was drawn to wakefulness._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It needs work. :( But! Oh well. :)


	7. My Footsies are Freezing, Thank You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian decidedly dislikes just about everything that has to do with the cold. Snow, ice, winter games. Awful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick short I wrote up the other day while walking a dog through the winter wonderland of ice and snow.
> 
> Adoribull - G Rated Fluff

There was nothing he could do to stop the misfortunate turn of events. His left foot wobbled on the precariously thin skate blade, and as Dorian tried to compensate for the sudden tilt in balance, his right leg slipped out in front of him. Barely in time was he able to careen forward, arms wind-milling wildly and keeping himself upright. Barely. His left leg once more skidded to the side, ice spraying as he tried to drag his leg back under himself which only caused his right leg to once more skew awkwardly outward, spine arching back as his body tried (and failed) to regain equilibrium.

He shouted in surprise when, after he finally was able to readjust himself to a somewhat upright and forward moving position, the toe of his skate jabbed into the ice and sent him pitching forward, to land with hands splayed on the ice, rear end up in the air. He could hear Iron Bull and Blackwall laughing at him from the shoreline of the frozen lake and his face burned in embarrassment.

Carefully, so, so carefully Dorian righted himself to a standing position. He could see Cullen watching him from across the lake, the man skating backwards with ease across the frozen water hell-scape.

“Are you alright, Dorian?” Elluin Lavellan called from her corner of the frozen lake and he waved over his shoulder at her in dismissal.

“Come ice skating, Dorian.” He muttered under his breath. “It’s so fun, Dorian. Ha!” Slowly he tried to take a sliding step forward, followed by his other foot.

“There you go. Slow and steady!” The Commander called out encouragingly as he glided across the ice as if he had been born to do so. Graceful as a swan. The bastard.

Dorian took a deep breath and adjusted his fur lined heavy coat before trying another slide forward. But he miscalculated how far he could go and his leg slipped and slid and once more he was careening back and forth, arms whirling and twirling as he desperately tried to stay _upright_. But his feet danced of their own accord, skates chipping ice left and right and eventually the world upturned and he landed with a hard thump on his back, wind knocked from his chest.

Laughter loud and bellowing echoed across the frozen tundra from the waiting companions and Dorian groaned as he reached a mittened hand up to tenderly rub the back of his head. He could hear the quick sluice of skates across the lake and the sound of Cullen’s amused chuckle.

“Are you alright, Pavus?” The man asked, blonde head blocking the blue sky above. The man’s cheeks and nose were pink from the cold and his brown eyes crinkled in amusement as he stared down at Dorian’s sprawled form.

“Just leave me to die here, Commander. I’ll never recover from this.” He answered, groaning as the other man helped him into a sitting position.

“Anything broken?” Cullen asked, voice lilting with laughter.

“Only my pride.” Dorian bemoaned, sighing heavily as he dusted the snow from his knees.

“Let’s get you off the ice. We’ll get you a cup of that spiced wine the Inquisitor brought.” Cullen chuckled as he helped Dorian to his feet.

Elluin appeared on his other side, eyes wide as she looked him over head to toe. “You’re alright?” She asked, worry tinging her words.

“Apparently so.” He answered, allowing the elven woman to wrap her arm through his, her delicate mittened hands protectively holding one of his own.

A strong arm slipped around his waist and Dorian glanced sidelong at Cullen, the man still softly chuckling as he steadied the mage and the two carefully escorted him back to shore.

“Good show, kadan!” Iron Bull crowed, his loud bellowing Qunari laughter still echoing across the valley. Dorian was sure they could hear the warrior all the way up in the SkyHold courtyard.

“Hm.” Dorian sniffed haughtily as he gingerly sat down and removed the ice skates from his feet.

“My turn!” Blackwall said excitedly and took the skates from Dorian’s hand quickly fastening them to his own feet.

The mage rubbed at his lower back, grimacing as he touched a rather tender spot. Cullen and Elluin returned to the ice, the Commander smiling as the dainty elf made a quick circle around him before the two took off at full racing speed to the opposite side of the lake.

Well, he mused as Iron Bull handed him a tin mug of steaming spiced wine, at least those two were enjoying themselves.


	8. Chase Away My Fears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen has a talk with his companion after the horrifying experience of battle.
> 
> (God I'm really bad at summarizing)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cullrian -- T for Mention of Death

Adamant. Once a bastion against the dark evils from the underbelly of the world, was now a ruined shell of it’s once glorious past. Cullen walked along the broken battlements and stone walkways, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as he stepped over more dead Warden’s and Inquisition soldiers. If what Solas said was true, their memory would forever be locked in a ferocious battle between the two. To be enacted again and again by spirits of the Fade. It was a tragedy that would be written and retold for millennia henceforth.

Cullen knelt at the side of an unblinking, lifeless Corporal. He reached down and let his fingers close the woman’s eyes, so she may rest peacefully in the next life.

“May the Maker take you by his side.” He murmured, pressing a kiss to his fingertips before laying them gently along the woman’s cold brow. Slowly standing from where he knelt, Cullen continued his weary walk, kneeling at each of the dead he passed (Warden and Inquisition alike) and sent his pleading prayer for their souls to the Maker.

He was tired. Exhausted. Physically, mentally, emotionally.

He hadn’t noticed he was weeping until a Chantry Sister approached him, her own robes reddened along the bottom hem from the gore she waded through as she blessed the dead in turn.

“Please, Commander. Go see a healer and take some rest.” The young woman reached out to touch his cheek, a thumb running along the dark circle under his eye. “We shall see these poor souls to the Maker’s side.”

Cullen nodded and stepped away from the woman, one hand roughly wiping at the cooling tear tracks along his cheeks. “Thank you, sister. Please, if you can save anything that we could send back to families...”

“Of course, Commander.” The Sister walked with him down the stairs until she was certain he was stumbling through the rubble back to the camp that dotted the open expanse in front of the large, crumbling keep of yore. Their large battering rams and trebuchets stood stark against the eve darkened horizon. Soldiers were already put to task to begin dismantling the war machines for use in the funeral pyres.

Funeral pyres that would undoubtedly burn from dawn to dusk and on until the morning broke once more.

He was tired. So tired he could feel it in his core. A bone deep weariness. The healer’s tents were collected nearest the keep. People rushing too and fro, cries from the wounded and dying filled the air with a melancholy chorus. It sent shivers rushing down Cullen’s spine and his feet detoured away from the wailing howls.

His wounds were minor, a few scrapes and cuts, a couple bruises. Nothing that wouldn’t heal on it’s own given time and a little care.

The camp was somber. Eerily quiet for a victorious army. A few gathered soldiers shared skins of wine but most sat in silent contemplation of their hearth fires. Many of the soldiers were Ferelden. And Ferelden’s remembered the bravery of the Grey Wardens. They remembered the horrors of the blight.

And they felt the loss of Warden Alistair Theirin acutely. The man, after all, had been with the Hero of Ferelden. Had fought beside him. Had been there when the Hero died to save them all. And the Warden had, in turn, sacrificed himself as well.

Heroes.

His throat tightened painfully and Cullen turned away from the fires of his subordinates to walk the lonely path up to the Inner Circle’s tents. Inquisitor Cadash sat quietly, staring into the fire before her own tent. Blackwall sat beside the small dwarven warrior, holding her hand and whispering soft sentiments to the stout woman. Leliana was nowhere to be seen and he could not fault her. She had known Warden Alistair. Had fought and bled with him. She had been in love with the Hero of Ferelden and the two had spent many nights in SkyHold laughing and reminiscing about their lost friend.

He skirted around the Inquisitor’s fire pit as well, not wishing to speak with either warrior pondering the flickering flames. The rest of the companions were interspersed through the tents. Most were weary from battle and huddled around their own fires or already in their tents. The Chargers were softly singing dirges for the lives lost that day, Iron Bull drinking from a large skin as he hummed along with his companies melancholy songs.

Cole was perched upon a chair just outside of the circle of light, watching them all drink and sing. His curious blue eyes flickered towards Cullen as the ex-Templar shuffled past to his own tent.

“Everyone is sad. I cannot help them all.” The boy said, drawing the blonde’s attention to him.

“It is impossible to help everyone, Cole.” He answered, shoulders slumping at the admission.

“But it is possible to help some.” The boy whispered as his eyes searched Cullen’s haggard face.

“Yes.”

“I want to help.”

Cullen watched the boy as his distant gaze slowly moved back out over the sprawling army camp. “Good night, Cole.” He muttered when the boy didn’t continue his thoughts out loud.

“Good night. Commander Cullen.” Cole replied, his tone distant.

A raised chorus of singing followed in his wake as he stepped into his tent. The heavy fabric dampened the mournful chorus as it fell closed and Cullen brushed a hand over his face, wiping away a flaking crust of sweat, dirt, and blood. He paused, hand resting over his mouth, as he noticed a hunched form on the edge of his sleeping roll in the dim candle light.

“Dorian.” He called softly, surprised to see the mage sitting in his tent. He would have expected the man to be with the Charger’s or the Inquisitor. Not here. Not inside the Commander’s personal accommodations.

Red rimmed grey eyes blinked up at him and the mage nodded slightly. “Commander.”

“What are you doing?” Cullen asked, a hint of anger on the edge of his words.

The Tevinter wrapped his arms around his chest and shrugged, glancing away to the far corner of the tent. “I am... Hiding. I figured no one would look for me here. And had not expected you to return for some time.”

“I see.” Cullen murmured softly, unsure exactly how to approach the situation. He shifted foot to foot for a moment before sighing. “And why are you hiding, exactly?” He asked as he began to toe off his blood soaked boots.

“Mostly to be alone.”

Cullen kicked the discarded footwear to the side and began to unbuckle his cuirass. “Well, I’m afraid this is my tent. If you wish privacy, perhaps your own would be better suited?”

Dorian’s hands clutched at his upper arms and the mage shivered as if chilled. He didn’t answer Cullen’s sharp retort straight away, instead remaining huddled on the edge of the sleeping roll as the blonde removed his armor with a groan. When the Tevinter still hadn’t moved by the time Cullen stood in his shirt and pants, the ex-Templar considered the man.

“Dorian.” He began, curious to the glazed far off gaze upon his counterpart’s face.

“Would you have made me Tranquil?” The other asked suddenly.

“I - What?” Cullen asked, eyebrows drawing together in concern.

“Do you believe me weak? Susceptible to - to temptations?” Grey eyes shadowed by a furrowed brow looked up. There was fear plainly written in the creases marring Dorian’s face.

Cullen frowned, pondering the man’s questions. No one had spoken yet of what had taken place when they’d fallen into the Fade. His teeth worried the inside of his cheek as he considered his answer. There had been a time he would have absolutely argued for Dorian’s tranquility. The man was brash, far too intelligent for his own good, and had a cutting tongue.

But time had tempered Cullen’s anger and impetuous desire to see any mage in shackles. He knew the ultimate price of such enmity. And he had vowed to see more than just a mage’s abilities. To see them for the people they were.

Carefully he stepped towards the man and knelt down to sit on the bedroll next to the mage. “No. I do not believe you are any of those things.” He finally answered.

Dorian seemed to relax with his assurance. The man let out a shaky breath and nodded carefully, as if the motion would cause his head to roll from his shoulders if he moved too quickly. They sat in silence for a while, each absorbed in their own thoughts.

Cullen once more found himself reflecting on Kirkwall. Thinking of all the Rites of Tranquility he had personally overseen. Thinking of the pleading, helpless men and women. Remembering as their struggles against their binds would suddenly... Cease. How they would stare cow-eyed at the surrounding Templars afterward, awaiting their orders.

No. No he could not imagine Dorian in such a state. Not without feeling the crushing weight of guilt at all those who were.

“You may stay here. If you wish.” He murmured, fingers plucking at the bottom of his shirt. In part because the mage was right in that no one would think to look for him in Cullen’s tent. But also because the ex-Templar himself did not wish to be alone with only his memories for company.

A soft hiccuping sigh was his only answer and Cullen did his best to look the other way when the mage sniffed lightly, a hand sweeping quickly across his eyes. He removed his sweat and blood stained shirt before crawling to lay behind Dorian on the soft bedroll. He waited a moment, eyes lingering on the back of the mage’s head before he reached up and gently patted the other’s quivering shoulder.

Dorian turned his head, his face dark in the dim candlelight. A soft squeeze on the man’s shoulder and wordlessly the mage rolled to lay beside him. The solitary lit candle flickered out as it’s wick burned down to near nothing.

Cullen rolled to his side, grimacing when he disturbed a growing bruise upon his ribs. He looked at his companion, the other’s eyes glimmering in the darkness of the tent. The mage’s profile shadowed as he contemplated the ceiling of the tent. The dampened sound of the Charger’s mournful melodies lent a haunting air to the mage’s brooding.

They lay beside one another, Cullen observing his unexpected visitor. He wondered about the other’s question. What had made him ask such a thing. What could possibly have driven the normally sharp witted Altus _to his tent to hide_ of all things.

“What happened? In the Fade?” He asked, genuinely curious.

“A great many things. I wouldn’t know exactly where to start.” Dorian’s voice was tight, as if he were walking along a razors edge and barely keeping upright. The man’s breath came in shallow pants, and Cullen waited. He could hear words gathering along the back of Dorian’s breath, could practically feel them gaining substance as the mage collected them together. The way one can feel the roll of thunder just before the crackling rumble. “Tell me, Commander, does a Lion feel fear?” 

A sharp hiss as he drew in a breath between shuttered teeth. “Of course.”

“What are they? A Lion’s fears.” Dorian asked, his head turning to face Cullen in the darkness.

Lips moved silently as he considered the other’s question. The bared vulnerability in the Tevinter’s voice and actions eased any suspicion. His throat tightened as he examined the answers to the inquiry.

“I fear not being strong enough. Of failing again. Of not giving enough of - of -” His throat flexed painfully and Cullen released a heavy sigh. “That I am inadequate.”

Darkened eyes flickered across his face and Cullen lurched in surprise when a soft touch brushed across his brow, smoothing a stray lock of hair back. “Thank you.” Dorian hushed.

They lay side by side, each considering the other. The smell of battle permeated the air between them, but underneath it all the scent of Dorian’s perfume tinted the air. And Cullen drew a deep breath, trying to place the faint spiced scent lingering beneath. He didn’t jolt away when another brushing finger traced the outline of his face. And when Dorian rolled to his side and slid closer, body warmly pressing against his own, Cullen allowed his hand to rest gently upon the mage’s waist.

The need to be near a _living_ being after the horror of battle was heavy between the two men and they in turn answered that desire for the other. The closeness helping to push away the open dread each man gave voice to only minutes prior. The human hunger for touch pulling them closer in their open vulnerability.

“You are the strongest man I know.” Dorian whispered, the words brushing faint across Cullen’s skin with their proximity. “Would you make me a promise?”

“What is it?”

“Promise you will not let me - that you - that I -”

Cullen lifted his hand from Dorian’s waist and pressed his fingertips against the other’s lips. “I need not make that promise. You are more than what you fear. You have proven so again and again.”

A slight nod and those dark, shining eyes squeezed shut as a shuddering breath shivered through the Tevinter. His hand fell to lay upon Dorian’s rib cage, squeezing gently in assurance. They remained that way, Dorian’s fingers curling along his neck, his own resting on the man’s side. Weary exhaustion and an easy solidarity between the two beckoned them into sleep. Arms weaving around each other, as if their closeness could keep the nightmares at bay. Even if just for a short time. Keeping each other safe from the fears that crept through the shadows, bidding time until morning saw them part.


End file.
